Beautiful and Damned (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  “I suppose it’s because you’ve been busy—as much as anything else,” smiled Mrs. Gilbert somewhat ambiguously. The “as much as anything else” she used to balance all her more rickety sentences. She had two other ones: “at least that’s the way I look at it” and “pure and simple”—these three, alternated, gave each of her remarks an air of being a general reflection on life, as though she had calculated all causes and, at length, put her finger on the ultimate one.

  Richard Caramel’s face, Anthony saw, was now quite normal. The brow and cheeks were of a flesh color, the nose politely inconspicuous. He had fixed his aunt with the bright-yellow eye, giving her that acute and exaggerated attention that young males are accustomed to render to all females who are of no further value.

  “Are you a writer too, Mr. Pats? ... Well, perhaps we can all bask in Richard’s fame.”—Gentle laughter led by Mrs. Gilbert.

  “Gloria’s out,” she said, with an air of laying down an axiom from which she would proceed to derive results. “She’s dancing somewhere. Gloria goes, goes, goes. I tell her I don’t see how she stands it. She dances all afternoon and all night, until I think she’s going to wear herself to a shadow. Her father is very worried about her.”

  She smiled from one to the other. They both smiled.

  She was composed, Anthony perceived, of a succession of semicircles and parabolas, like those figures that gifted folk make on the typewriter: head, arms, bust, hips, thighs, and ankles were in a bewildering tier of roundnesses. Well ordered and clean she was, with hair of an artificially rich gray; her large face sheltered weather-beaten blue eyes and was adorned with just the faintest white mustache.

  “I always say,” she remarked to Anthony, “that Richard is an ancient soul.”

  In the tense pause that followed, Anthony considered a pun—something about Dick having been much walked upon.

  “We all have souls of different ages,” continued Mrs. Gilbert radiantly; “at least that’s what I say.”

  “Perhaps so,” agreed Anthony with an air of quickening to a hopeful idea. The voice bubbled on:

  “Gloria has a very young soul—irresponsible, as much as anything else. She has no sense of responsibility.”

  “She’s sparkling, Aunt Catherine,” said Richard pleasantly. “A sense of responsibility would spoil her. She’s too pretty.”

  “Well,” confessed Mrs. Gilbert, “all I know is that she goes and goes and goes—”

  The number of goings to Gloria’s discredit was lost in the rattle of the door-knob as it turned to admit Mr. Gilbert.

  He was a short man with a mustache resting like a small white cloud beneath his undistinguished nose. He had reached the stage where his value as a social creature was a black and imponderable negative. His ideas were the popular delusions of twenty years before; his mind steered a wabbly and anæmic course in the wake of the daily newspaper editorials. After graduating from a small but terrifying Western university, he had entered the celluloid business, and as this required only the minute measure of intelligence he brought to it, he did well for several years—in fact until about 1911, when he began exchanging contracts for vague agreements with the moving-picture industry. The moving-picture industry had decided about 1912 to gobble him up, and at this time he was, so to speak, delicately balanced on its tongue. Meanwhile he was supervising manager of the Associated Mid-western Film Materials Company, spending six months of each year in New York and the remainder in Kansas City and St. Louis. He felt credulously that there was a good thing coming to him—and his wife thought so, and his daughter thought so too.

  He disapproved of Gloria: she stayed out late, she never ate her meals, she was always in a mix-up—he had irritated her once and she had used toward him words that he had not thought were part of her vocabulary. His wife was easier. After fifteen years of incessant guerilla warfare he had conquered her—it was a war of muddled optimism against organized dulness, and something in the number of “yes’s” with which he could poison a conversation had won him the victory.

  “Yes-yes-yes-yes,” he would say, “yes-yes-yes-yes. Let me see. That was the summer of—let me see—ninety-one or ninety-two—Yes-yes-yes-yes—”

  Fifteen years of yes’s had beaten Mrs. Gilbert. Fifteen further years of that incessant unaffirmative affirmative, accompanied by the perpetual flicking of ash-mushrooms from thirty-two thousand cigars, had broken her. To this husband of hers she made the last concession of married life, which is more complete, more irrevocable, than the first—she listened to him. She told herself that the years had brought her tolerance—actually they had slain what measure she had ever possessed of moral courage.

  She introduced him to Anthony.

  “This is Mr. Pats,” she said.

  The young man and the old touched flesh; Mr. Gilbert’s hand was soft, worn away to the pulpy semblance of a squeezed grapefruit. Then husband and wife exchanged greetings—he told her it had grown colder out; he said he had walked down to a news-stand on Forty-fourth Street for a Kansas City paper. He had intended to ride back in the bus but he had found it too cold, yes, yes, yes, yes, too cold.

  Mrs. Gilbert added flavor to his adventure by being impressed with his courage in braving the harsh air.

  “Well, you are spunky!” she exclaimed admiringly. “You are spunky. I wouldn’t have gone out for anything.”

  Mr. Gilbert with true masculine impassivity disregarded the awe he had excited in his wife. He turned to the two young men and triumphantly routed them on the subject of the weather. Richard Caramel was called on to remember the month of November in Kansas. No sooner had the theme been pushed toward him, however, than it was violently fished back to be lingered over, pawed over, elongated, and generally devitalized by its sponsor.

  The immemorial thesis that the days somewhere were warm but the nights very pleasant was successfully propounded and they decided the exact distance on an obscure railroad between two points that Dick had inadvertently mentioned. Anthony fixed Mr. Gilbert with a steady stare and went into a trance through which, after a moment, Mrs. Gilbert’s smiling voice penetrated:

  “It seems as though the cold were damper here—it seems to eat into my bones.”

  As this remark, adequately yessed, had been on the tip of Mr. Gilbert’s tongue, he could not be blamed for rather abruptly changing the subject.

  “Where’s Gloria?”

  “She ought to be here any minute.”

  “Have you met my daughter, Mr.—?”

  “Haven’t had the pleasure. I’ve heard Dick speak of her often.”

  “She and Richard are cousins.”

  “Yes?” Anthony smiled with some effort. He was not used to the society of his seniors, and his mouth was stiff from superfluous cheerfulness. It was such a pleasant thought about Gloria and Dick being cousins. He managed within the next minute to throw an agonized glance at his friend.

  Richard Caramel was afraid they’d have to toddle off.

  Mrs. Gilbert was tremendously sorry.

  Mr. Gilbert thought it was too bad.

  Mrs. Gilbert had a further idea—something about being glad they’d come, anyhow, even if they’d only seen an old lady ’way too old to flirt with them. Anthony and Dick evidently considered this a sly sally, for they laughed one bar in three-four time:

  Would they come again soon?

  “Oh, yes.”

  Gloria would be awfully sorry!

  “Good-by—”

  “Good-by—”

  Smiles!

  Smiles!

  Bang!

  Two disconsolate young men walking down the tenth-floor corridor of the Plaza in the direction of the elevator.

  A Lady’s Legs

  Behind Maury Noble’s attractive indolence, his irrelevance and his easy mockery, lay a surprising and relentless maturity of purpose.1 His intention, as he stated it in college, had been to use three years in travel, three years in utter leisure—and then to become immensely rich as quickly as possible
.

  His three years of travel were over. He had accomplished the globe with an intensity and curiosity that in any one else would have seemed pedantic, without redeeming spontaneity, almost the self-editing of a human Baedeker; but, in this case, it assumed an air of mysterious purpose and significant design—as though Maury Noble were some predestined anti-Christ, urged by a preordination to go everywhere there was to go along the earth and to see all the billions of humans who bred and wept and slew each other here and there upon it.

  Back in America, he was sallying into the search for amusement with the same consistent absorption. He who had never taken more than a few cocktails or a pint of wine at a sitting, taught himself to drink as he would have taught himself Greek—like Greek it would be the gateway to a wealth of new sensations, new psychic states, new reactions in joy or misery.

  His habits were a matter for esoteric speculation. He had three rooms in a bachelor apartment on Forty-fourth Street, but he was seldom to be found there. The telephone girl had received the most positive instructions that no one should even have his ear without first giving a name to be passed upon. She had a list of half a dozen people to whom he was never at home, and of the same number to whom he was always at home. Foremost on the latter list were Anthony Patch and Richard Caramel.

  Maury’s mother lived with her married son in Philadelphia, and there Maury went usually for the week-ends, so one Saturday night when Anthony, prowling the chilly streets in a fit of utter boredom, dropped in at the Molton Arms he was overjoyed to find that Mr. Noble was at home.

  His spirits soared faster than the flying elevator. This was so good, so extremely good, to be about to talk to Maury—who would be equally happy at seeing him. They would look at each other with a deep affection just behind their eyes which both would conceal beneath some attenuated raillery. Had it been summer they would have gone out together and indolently sipped two long Tom Collinses, as they wilted their collars and watched the faintly diverting round of some lazy August cabaret. But it was cold outside, with wind around the edges of the tall buildings and December just up the street, so better far an evening together under the soft lamplight and a drink or two of Bushmill’s, or a thimbleful of Maury’s Grand Marnier, with the books gleaming like ornaments against the walls, and Maury radiating a divine inertia as he rested, large and catlike, in his favorite chair.

  There he was! The room closed about Anthony, warmed him. The glow of that strong persuasive mind, that temperament almost Oriental in its outward impassivity, warmed Anthony’s restless soul and brought him a peace that could be likened only to the peace a stupid woman gives. One must understand all—else one must take all for granted. Maury filled the room, tigerlike, godlike. The winds outside were stilled; the brass candlesticks on the mantel glowed like tapers before an altar.

  “What keeps you here to-day?” Anthony spread himself over a yielding sofa and made an elbow-rest among the pillows.

  “Just been here an hour. Tea dance—and I stayed so late I missed my train to Philadelphia.”

  “Strange to stay so long,” commented Anthony curiously.

  “Rather. What’d you do?”

  “Geraldine. Little usher at Keith’s. I told you about her.”

  “Oh!”

  “Paid me a call about three and stayed till five. Peculiar little soul—she gets me. She’s so utterly stupid.”

  Maury was silent.

  “Strange as it may seem,” continued Anthony, “so far as I’m concerned, and even so far as I know, Geraldine is a paragon of virtue.”

  He had known her a month, a girl of nondescript and nomadic habits. Some one had casually passed her on to Anthony, who considered her amusing and rather liked the chaste and fairylike kisses she had given him on the third night of their acquaintance, when they had driven in a taxi through the Park. She had a vague family—a shadowy aunt and uncle who shared with her an apartment in the labyrinthine hundreds. She was company, familiar and faintly intimate and restful. Further than that he did not care to experiment—not from any moral compunction, but from a dread of allowing any entanglement to disturb what he felt was the growing serenity of his life.

  “She has two stunts,” he informed Maury; “one of them is to get her hair over her eyes some way and then blow it out, and the other is to say ‘You cra-a-azy!’ when some one makes a remark that’s over her head. It fascinates me. I sit there hour after hour, completely intrigued by the maniacal symptoms she finds in my imagination.”

  Maury stirred in his chair and spoke.

  “Remarkable that a person can comprehend so little and yet live in such a complex civilization. A woman like that actually takes the whole universe in the most matter-of-fact way. From the influence of Rousseaub to the bearing of the tariff rates on her dinner, the whole phenomenon is utterly strange to her. She’s just been carried along from an age of spearheads and plunked down here with the equipment of an archer for going into a pistol duel. You could sweep away the entire crust of history and she’d never know the difference.”

  “I wish our Richard would write about her.”

  “Anthony, surely you don’t think she’s worth writing about.”

  “As much as anybody,” he answered, yawning. “You know I was thinking to-day that I have a great confidence in Dick. So long as he sticks to people and not to ideas, and as long as his inspirations come from life and not from art, and always granting a normal growth, I believe he’ll be a big man.”

  “I should think the appearance of the black note-book would prove that he’s going to life.”

  Anthony raised himself on his elbow and answered eagerly:

  “He tries to go to life. So does every author except the very worst, but after all most of them live on predigested food. The incident or character may be from life, but the writer usually interprets it in terms of the last book he read. For instance, suppose he meets a sea-captain and thinks he’s an original character. The truth is that he sees the resemblance between the sea-captain and the last sea-captain Dana created, or whoever creates sea-captains, and therefore he knows how to set this sea-captain on paper. Dick, of course, can set down any consciously picturesque, character-like character, but could he accurately transcribe his own sister?”

  Then they were off for half an hour on literature.

  “A classic,” suggested Anthony, “is a successful book that has survived the reaction of the next period or generation. Then it’s safe, like a style in architecture or furniture. It’s acquired a picturesque dignity to take the place of its fashion....”

  After a time the subject temporarily lost its tang. The interest of the two young men was not particularly technical. They were in love with generalities. Anthony had recently discovered Samuel Butlerc and the brisk aphorisms in the note-book seemed to him the quintessence of criticism. Maury, his whole mind so thoroughly mellowed by the very hardness of his scheme of life, seemed inevitably the wiser of the two, yet in the actual stuff of their intelligences they were not, it seemed, fundamentally different.

  They drifted from letters to the curiosities of each other’s day.

  “Whose tea was it?”

  “People named Abercrombie.”

  “Why’d you stay late? Meet a luscious débutante?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you really?” Anthony’s voice lifted in surprise.

  “Not a débutante exactly. Said she came out two winters ago in Kansas City.”

  “Sort of left-over?”

  “No,” answered Maury with some amusement, “I think that’s the last thing I’d say about her. She seemed—well, somehow the youngest person there.”

  “Not too young to make you miss a train.”

  “Young enough. Beautiful child.”

  Anthony chuckled in his one-syllable snort.

  “Oh, Maury, you’re in your second childhood. What do you mean by beautiful?”

  Maury gazed helplessly into space.

  “Well, I can’t describe he
r exactly—except to say that she was beautiful. She was—tremendously alive. She was eating gum-drops.”

  “What!”

  “It was a sort of attenuated vice. She’s a nervous kind—said she always ate gum-drops at teas because she had to stand around so long in one place.”

  “What’d you talk about—Bergson? Bilphism? Whether the one-step is immoral?”

  Maury was unruffled; his fur seemed to run all ways.

  “As a matter of fact we did talk on Bilphism. Seems her mother’s a Bilphist. Mostly, though, we talked about legs.”

  Anthony rocked in glee.

  “My God! Whose legs?”

  “Hers. She talked a lot about hers. As though they were a sort of choice bric-à-brac. She aroused a great desire to see them.”

  “What is she—a dancer?”

  “No, I found she was a cousin of Dick’s?”

  Anthony sat upright so suddenly that the pillow he released stood on end like a live thing and dove to the floor.

  “Name’s Gloria Gilbert?” he cried.

  “Yes. Isn’t she remarkable?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know—but for sheer dulness her father—”

  “Well,” interrupted Maury with implacable conviction, “her family may be as sad as professional mourners but I’m inclined to think that she’s a quite authentic and original character. The outer signs of the cut-and-dried Yale prom girl and all that—but different, very emphatically different.”

  “Go on, go on!” urged Anthony. “Soon as Dick told me she didn’t have a brain in her head I knew she must be pretty good.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “Swore to it,” said Anthony with another snorting laugh.

  “Well, what he means by brains in a woman is—”

  “I know,” interrupted Anthony eagerly, “he means a smattering of literary misinformation.”

  “That’s it. The kind who believes that the annual moral letdown of the country is a very good thing or the kind who believes it’s a very ominous thing. Either pince-nez or postures. Well, this girl talked about legs. She talked about skin too—her own skin. Always her own. She told me the sort of tan she’d like to get in the summer and how closely she usually approximated it.”